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As I type this, it’s Tuesday Morning, 8AM Lima time, Frankfurt Germany. I’m assuming I’ll be able to upload this when I get to Spain, but who knows.

I just took a long walk in an airport even longer than Atlanta’s (which I didn’t think was possible). I got a grand total of one hour’s sleep on a nine hour flight, with two more to go as soon as they start boarding. The harsh staccato of German echoes through the airport loudspeakers, followed by French, English and Spanish. I should know more German – my father was born and raised not too far from here (what’s a few hundred kilometers by American standards). The cadence of the language is surprisingly instinctive to me and I can pick out just enough words to completely misunderstand everything. "Achtung, bitte, abfluge werden nicht aufgerufen...."

I kinda want to get the flavor of Germany. Last time I was here, I lived in Berlin when my father was in the US Army. I was a toddler, then, and don’t remember a thing. The airport is not a place to get a feel for a country – everyone here is from everywhere else. (RhondaK – you’d love this airport...every person has a different hairstyle and different qualities and quantity of eyebrows. No two people are the same). Some other time, perhaps. I’ll expand my German beyond 19th century romantic poetry and actually dredge up something useful other than "Bitte, sprechen Sie Inglische?" and "Wo ist das Bier, mein Freund?" Scratch that last one. It may be 2AM back home, but I don’t think I could drink a beer with the sun rising over the horizon.

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In Spain, in the hotel bar, 7PM Lima time. They make a good vodka martini in Spain – I think I expected something different. They did run a lemon through the mix so that there’s a bit of a tang, but they did it right – it’s still tasteless. Vodka martinis are all about texture, not taste.

A martini is probably going to kill me, but hey, might as well go out in style. I’ve ordered some baby squid, sautéed in olives and parsley, so some food may balance the fatigue poisons I’ve been accumulating. I have no idea what time it is back home, just that I’ve had one hour of sleep since I woke up Monday at 5:30 Atlanta time. I’ve got a nice little jetlag/punchy buzz going, but I’m also catching myself nod from time to time. I finished a book before hitting the bar (Red Dragon, Thomas Harris) and I almost fell asleep. Can’t do that – too early. I figure I’ll be in bed by 9, get a good 9 hours, and maybe jam my internal clock into European Daylight Time in one big flip.

Did the tourist thing in Barcelona today. Went to the Castillo on the Med, then the Cathedral that they’re turning into a museum. Barcelona is a very pretty city, but I’m getting some serious déjà vu. I’m not sure where it comes from. I’ve seen this city in my dreams, literally, but I can’t really be sure that I have, if that makes any sense. This city is familiar in a thousand different ways. The Med is green/blue like the waters around the Florida Keys. The shops remind me of Paris and Washington DC. The plants remind me of Key West, New Orleans, and Phoenix – there are sub-tropical flowers everywhere, mixed with cacti and aloe/agave. There is a plague of feral cats, like Key West. The city looks like Monte Carlo on steroids, with the jam-packed city three times the size of Monaco hanging off of cliffs facing the sea. One good quake and the whole place may plop right into the Med. On the other hand, getting glimpses of the high ridges between the streets reminds me of LA. Have I really dreamt these streets, or has my subconscious amalgamated my travels into something that is wrongly familiar?

My squid has arrived. It’s not at all what I expected. Instead of a vinegar base, a la Italian/Japanese, it’s almost charcoaled. It’s very good.

Note to self: Don’t break in new shoes while exploring a new city. I have virtually no arches, my feet are pretty flat. It always takes a few weeks for my feet to wear away the built in arch support in new shoes. I must have walked 20 kilometers today. My feet will revolt tomorrow.

I’m beginning to swap my thoughts from English to Spanish. This is kinda neat. For some reason, I can speak it better than I understand it, which is the reverse of normal. I think it’s the Catalan accent – they lisp (I’m in Bar-thuh-lone-ah). They can understand me, but my latino espanol along with my American accent makes me a neon tourist. They’re polite about it, letting me mangle the language when virtually everyone I’ve bumped into can get by in pigeon English.

I can’t get the exchange rate straight – 175 pesetas to the dollar. There are coins worth a lot more than they seem – I tipped one cabbie what turned out to be 600 pesetas in coins. Another cabbie, I think I stiffed. I don’t even know if you’re supposed to tip in Spain. I feel like a guilty American if I don’t, but I don’t want to be too touristy, either.